Prison Time

by Shaun Attwood

  ‘I know, but the last time he snuck up behind and caught me off guard. I’m way more aware now.’

  Two Tonys nods, as if plotting.

  Inside, Two Tonys sits with Ken and Cannonball, Ken’s burly and intimidating cellmate, whose yellow-jaundiced skin on a big round face resembles a poppadom. I sit at the next table and eavesdrop.

  ‘If they cut your ass loose in Mall of fucking America, what would you loot?’ Two Tonys likes to pose hypothetical scenarios.

  ‘I’d hit the diamond stores,’ Cannonball says.

  ‘Smart,’ Two Tonys says. ‘Lots of small, pricey shit. Diamond rings and gold chains. What about you, Ken?’

  ‘I’d go where the big money’s at: the banks.’ Ken raises his dark-circled eyes from his slop to Two Tonys, as if seeking approval.

  ‘Get out of here!’ Two Tonys says, flexing his brow. ‘How the fuck would you get in a locked bank vault, motherfucker?’

  Ken recoils. ‘I dunno. I’d figure it out.’

  ‘You couldn’t even break out of your own fucking cell. If they locked you in, you’d die in there. You know nothing about locks or robbing banks.’

  ‘What should I be looting, then?’

  ‘You’d do well looting Los Angeles,’ Two Tonys says.

  ‘Why’s that?’ Ken asks, hope in his eyes.

  ‘’Cause of all the fucking porno stores. If Korean snipers didn’t cap your ass, you’d be cleaning out the sex stores. I can see you running down Hollywood Boulevard with a backpack full of dildos – big black ones.’

  I stifle laughter, as Ken’s face sours. With the surrounding tables now paying attention, I worry about the situation escalating. Ken is twice the size of Two Tonys.

  ‘How come Cannonball gets to be a diamond looter and I got to be a fucking dildo looter? What’re you trying to say?’ Ken huffs and slaps his palms on the table, as if about to rise.

  ‘I’m saying there’s something about you that exudes fucking dildo looting. Cannonball would be snatching diamonds and you’d be grabbing big black double dildos.’

  Ken grabs Two Tonys’ neck.

  ‘Hey, motherfucker! Don’t fuck with an old man doing fucking life sentences!’ Two Tonys’ face turns red. His eyes protrude.

  Ken releases the chokehold. ‘You fucker! I should have choked you out.’

  Coughing every few seconds, Two Tonys says, ‘If you’re gonna choke me for clowning you about dildos, then we’re not fucking playing any more.’

  After chow, I’m waiting in Cell 2 to give Long Island his stock-market class. He bursts in: ‘Two Tonys just asked me for a shank. He’s boiling water, waiting for Ken to come in, so he can throw it in his face.’

  ‘Why don’t we go over there and talk to him to get his mind off Ken?’ I say, worried about losing my friend to the hospital or punishment block. ‘We can postpone our stock-market stuff till after lockdown.’ Having set up hypothetical trading accounts, the highlight of our day is now the arrival of the financial newspapers so we can check how well our stocks are doing – competition is fierce between us.

  ‘Yeah, and if Ken tries to start any shit, we can stop it.’

  Rushing to leave the cell, we almost bump into Ken.

  Long Island steps in front of me and tilts his head back. ‘You can’t beat Two Tonys down. He’s too old. You’ll kill him.’

  ‘I promised him I’d never hurt him,’ Ken says, ‘but after what he said today, I don’t care. I can only be pushed so far.’

  ‘Look, he’s shook up right now from you choking him. At least let him calm down tonight before you go and talk to him.’

  ‘OK.’ Ken leaves.

  We find Two Tonys in his cell, boiling water with a heating filament called a stinger. After he vents about Ken, I ask for a story. In case Ken changes his mind and decides to pay Two Tonys a visit, we remain there until lockdown, satisfied no harm has come to him when we leave.

  16

  ‘Why did you start taking drugs?’ Dr Austin asks.

  ‘When I was a teenager, I was shy,’ I say, facing him, hands on my lap. ‘I’d go to clubs and pubs but wouldn’t really talk to people other than my friends. I never had the nerve to strike up conversations with girls. I was too self-conscious to dance. But when raving came around, I took Ecstasy and speed and I’d party with complete strangers all night, talking to them, hugging them. We’d tell each other our life stories. It got to the point where if my hometown friends didn’t want to go raving, I’d go to the party on my own because I knew so many people there. It was all I could think about all week long. Raving became my religion.’

  ‘What do you remember about the first time you took drugs?’

  ‘I’d been told drugs were bad, so I was really nervous, but once the high hit me, I felt like I’d entered a whole new dimension of pleasure. I couldn’t stop dancing. On Ecstasy, I was dancing on the main stage, smiling at hundreds of people, wearing psychedelic colours and a silver cowboy hat, not giving a damn about what anyone thought about me. I loved it. I’ve always had some anxiety. Some nights in childhood, my thoughts would race, worrying about stuff, keeping me awake for hours. On Ecstasy, for the first time in my life I felt completely relaxed. I didn’t have a care in the world.’

  ‘How did your drug habit get so out of control?’

  ‘It’s never as good after the first time. You’re always chasing those early highs. You either have to do more drugs to keep the high going, or step up to harder drugs, or mix the drugs up. Drugs put a cloud in my head that I didn’t know was there until I was arrested. When the cloud lifted, I saw the danger I’d put myself in over the years. I realised how lucky I am to be alive.’

  ‘To address the anxiety you experience that drives you to drugs, a compromise must be found. You have a need for relaxation and pleasure, for good mental health, which you’re not addressing if you believe that you “have to get this done and have to get that done” to achieve your goals. Let me take a guess: you probably spend 70 per cent of your time working towards your goals and 30 per cent on relaxation and pleasure?’

  ‘More like 90 per cent-plus on my goals and 10 per cent or less on pleasure.’ My lips tighten.

  ‘It’s worse than I thought then,’ he says, raising his brows.

  Confronting the issue gives me a sinking feeling.

  ‘Instead of rising up rapidly and having a massive need for play at the crest of your wave, you should try to obtain your goals more slowly, letting steam out from time to time on the way up by engaging in pleasure and relaxation.’

  ‘I can see what you’re saying is true, but I don’t want to achieve my goals slowly.’ My body tenses, shoulders rise. ‘Part of my goals are the time parameters I set,’ I say, raising my voice. ‘I view the road you’re describing as mediocre performance.’

  ‘Unless you change that belief and let out steam gradually as your stress builds, you’ll have the same problems that you’ve had in the past.’

  His caring tone cuts through my hostility. ‘So how do I change that?’ I ask, my voice softening, shoulders relaxing. ‘There’s something inside me that drives me relentlessly. I don’t understand where it comes from.’

  ‘I need to go deeper into your psyche to find out what has shaped your core belief system.’ His face turns serious. ‘But sadly that’s not possible,’ he says, compassion in his eyes. ‘I’ve been assigned to work at another prison.’

  ‘Oh no!’ I say, raising my hands. ‘Just when it seemed we were getting somewhere.’

  ‘Do you feel that you’ve benefited from the sessions we’ve had?’

  ‘Yes, but we were about to make progress and now you’re leaving.’

  ‘But there’s a new guy, Dr Owen. He might not do my stuff, though. He’s more into cognitive. I believe you can change the way you think, that’s what our sessions have been about.’

  ‘I appreciate your help. It’s meant a lot to get a professional opinion and to have you to speak to.’

  Having never tried t
o analyse myself with someone at this level before, I leave disappointed to lose Dr Austin, wondering whether I’ll be able to establish such a level of rapport with Dr Owen.

  17

  At recreation, I gag on the stench of sewage coming in waves on a hot breeze and walk around Slingblade. He is alone on the field, topless, sweat streaking down his belly, his body glistening, his arms folded tightly across his chest, staring blankly into space, occasionally muttering, cackling and shaking his massive fists at the sky. I wonder if his convulsions are due to mental illness or side effects from the pills the nurse brings him three times a day. I wish I could help him somehow, but I worry that if I approach him, he may have a flashback.

  ‘You come here!’ a member of a gang of Mexican-Americans shouts at me.

  My body tenses. ‘No, you come here!’ I yell in my deepest voice, not wanting to show fear.

  ‘Don’t give me that shit! I want to tell you something,’ he says, veins bulging from sweaty biceps.

  ‘What you got to tell me?’ I ask, bracing to fight.

  ‘Something from Frankie.’

  Relieved, I approach him.

  He leans forward and whispers in my ear, ‘I’ve been told to tell you that Frankie’s here in Building 2. He wants to meet you at early-outs lunch tomorrow.’

  ‘OK. Thanks,’ I say, wary yet excited.

  Two Tonys shows up, panting from exercise. The Mexican-Americans nod and raise their eyebrows in a respectful way. ‘You look outnumbered by my friends, my English buddy!’ Smiling, he bumps fists with the gang.

  When the gang leaves, I ask him, ‘How’s your day going?’

  ‘I’m having a wonderful day,’ Two Tonys says. ‘It started when I got up this morning and cleaned the house and had a hot coffee. I went to the chow hall and they had my favourite fucking breakfast: French toast, grilled potatoes and hot cereal. I thought I was in the fucking International House of Pancakes for a minute. I was looking for a waitress to order some cheese blintzes. I walked a bit, played some baseball and ate some ice cream. The biggest decision I got to make today is whether to go to fucking dinner or not.’

  I can’t stop laughing.

  ‘There was a time in my life when I had to make fucking decisions. Do I want to pay this guy or do I want to pay that guy? Do I want to whack this guy or do I want to whack that guy? I’m having a much better day than some of those rich motherfuckers I knew living on Camelback Mountain. They were worried about making their mortgage payments, or their wives banging the pool cleaner, or their high-school daughters smoking crack with some rapper, or their boys turning into hoodlums. Life is good. A guy my age can actually take nice naps in the afternoon. I’ve got it made.’

  I’m on the way to meet Frankie, looking forward to seeing my chess partner but nervous about repelling his sexual advances. I feel a strong bond with him because we both endured the cockroach-infested maximum-security Madison Street jail. Frankie and Junior Bull are the only two people in Buckeye prison that I knew before coming here. It’s such a lonely place that the arrival of a familiar face is comforting.

  I line up for chow and spot Frankie at a table, waving, smiling and blowing kisses. Blushing, I smile back. I receive a tray – bland boiled navy beans – and join him.

  ‘Englandman!’ Frankie stands.

  ‘Great to see you,’ I say, hugging him. ‘Pity we’re not in the same building, as I really miss our chess.’

  ‘You know who’s the greatest.’ Frankie flexes a bicep.

  ‘We’ll see about that. I’ve been reading chess books.’

  ‘I write chess books, homey!’ Frankie says, shaking his head.

  Everyone at the table laughs. We sit down.

  ‘Englandman, my wife’s stopped visiting me,’ he says, his tone and expression grave, ‘causing me to turn straight gay.’

  Here we go.

  ‘If I get moved over to your building, we can be cellies, Englandman.’

  ‘I hate to disappoint you, Frankie, but I’ve got a good celly.’

  ‘You guys doing sword fights yet?’ he asks.

  ‘You know I don’t fancy men.’

  ‘Englandman, you’re in denial. Haven’t you even had a blow job off a cheeto yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s not even considered gay in here! Everyone’s doing it. I’ll find you a real nice cheeto if you let me watch.’

  ‘It’s not going to happen!’ If everyone’s doing it, will I eventually? Try not to think about it. Masturbation will see me through. Be strong.

  ‘Englandman, after five years you’ll be getting blow jobs like the rest of us.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ But the lack of sex is painful. If it gets worse, will I go with a transsexual? Stop thinking about it! ‘Can we get back to chess, please?’

  ‘When I move buildings, it’s on! I’ll crush you like this.’ Frankie drops a bean onto the table and squashes it under a thumb. ‘In case you’ve been cheating on me, Englandman, I’d also like to read what you’ve been writing at Jon’s Jail Journal.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll send the printouts over to your building.’

  A few days later, I receive a note from Frankie.

  Para mi esposa

  After reading about George in your journal, I’m very anxious about him. As you know, I’m a very jealous man and you are engaged. Don’t this guy know that I will set the dogs on him and make him pee. You better tell George about Caesar, I go way back and I love the back door. By the way, tell George that it wasn’t your Spanish that led me to fall in love with you, it was your yoga exercises that caught all my attention, and that one time at Madison Street when I caught you rubbing cream into the bedsores on your ass. It was love at first sight! Also, if you need to know anything about your Hershey highway, that’s my department. I’m an expert in that area. I’m also a certified pipe layer. Well, my friend, I’m hearing that we’re being moved to dorms … It will be really cool if we end up in the same dorm. Now, that will be really nice, Englandman.

  I’m going to close now, but not forever.

  Much love and respect,

  Frankie

  PS. Tell George I’m the number one in your vida and that we’re engaged. By the way, I want to meet this guy, so introduce him to me. Take care and forget-me-not!

  I take the note to George, whose face drains of colour. In a nervous high-pitch, he says, ‘Tell Frankie I’ve left the country.’

  18

  ‘Lockdown! Special count!’ a guard announces at 6 a.m. on 11 July 2005, almost eight months into my stay at Buckeye prison.

  Long Island springs off his bunk and peers through the door window. ‘We’re leaving. The guards are handing out blue bags for our property!’ Prisoners are shuffled around every so often for security reasons, to break up gangs or foil escape plans.

  Unnerved, disorientated, I climb down from the top bunk. Will it be cells? Will it be dorms? Will I lose Long Island? My mind goes into overdrive.

  With guards barking orders and refusing to tell us where we’re going, I hurriedly load my belongings onto a trolley and wheel it to a warehouse for an inventory check.

  ‘I’m taking my shit over there.’ Hoping to avoid the confiscation of extra books, clothing, magazines and cassettes, Long Island joins a line for a guard he considers less strict.

  As I have no excess property, I join the shortest line – at the end is the hard-nosed internal-investigations officer who attempted to recruit me as an informer.

  ‘Attwood. The British blogger.’ He opens the boxes and starts recording my property. ‘When I was growing up, my favourite bands were The Smiths and New Order,’ he says, flicking through a book in search of razor blades, syringes and drugs.

  ‘Both from Manchester. Near where I’m from,’ I say, hoping no one has stashed anything in my property, a strategy prisoners sometimes employ on their enemies.

  ‘I also used to go to the Blue Iguana and the Works Club,’ he says, referring to rave clubs I attended.


  Shocked by him divulging information about his private life – most unusual for a guard – I suspect he’s tried Ecstasy. I keep my mouth shut, the best policy around staff.

  ‘Good luck in Tucson, Attwood,’ he says, handing me a form:

  Inmate Property Inventory

  1 radio clear tech Walkman

  1 headphones

  1 corded electric razor without case

  1 reading lamp with bulb

  1 fan

  1 box of legal material

  1 box of checkers

  7 books

  1 bulb ‘Philips’

  15 cassette tapes – ‘learning tapes’

  1 box of toiletries

  1 box of crackers

  1 jar of peanut butter

  1 tumbler

  1 bowl

  1 cup

  1 sunglasses

  With my property on its way to transportation, I return to my cell without pen and paper. Accustomed to writing letters and blogs, I feel part of me is missing. I don’t quite know what to do with myself. From the few books scattered around the day room, discarded by prisoners, I end up choosing Revolutionary Guerrilla Warfare and Buddhist literature.

  The next day at 3 a.m., the cell door clicks open. ‘Roll your mattresses up, put them in the day room and proceed to the chow hall!’

  Half asleep, I drop from the top bunk. The commotion of mattresses being thrown revs my heart up.

  Guards escort 75 of us to a warehouse. With no privacy, ten at a time are lined up in the middle and ordered to strip naked. Prisoners awaiting their turn heckle the naked men with comments like ‘Bend over, big boys!’